


Take These Chains and Set Me Free

by LonghornLetters



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Ethan loves him and wants the best for him, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, So do Morgan and Emily, Spencer just can't see past the end of his own genius, Spencer's struggling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 06:57:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/pseuds/LonghornLetters
Summary: Spencer's struggling with his direction and his addiction, but he's got friends who want to help him.





	1. A Prison of Your Own Making

**Author's Note:**

> This story grew out of the idea that Ethan knows Spencer so well that he can tell he's struggling, and he loves Spencer enough to call him on his bullshit.

 

 

> Chains of habit are too light to be felt until they are too heavy to be broken.
> 
> ~~Warren Buffett

 

“I know what it looks like when someone’s not well…” Ethan’s words followed Spencer as he left the club.  He turned sharply onto the sidewalk and stalked down the uneven pavement until a traffic light brought him up short. While he waited on the lights to change, he shoved his hands into his pockets and clenched them against their traitorous shaking.  

He shook his head to dislodge Ethan’s words and repeated “I am _fine_.”  

He turned himself in the general direction of the team’s hotel, but he didn’t actually want to go back.  More than that, he didn’t want to return to the precinct and have to dodge Morgan’s insistent questions about why he hadn’t answered his phone or pretend like the pitying looks Emily had taken to shooting him didn’t grate against his absolute last nerve.  But more even than them, he didn’t think he could face Hotch and Gideon’s studied nonchalance. The way they pumped data into him like nothing had changed and just expected he’d be his usual brilliant self.

“Looks like a slot machine, acts like a slot machine...” he muttered, scowling down at his feet as he walked.  He pushed his hair out of his face. “But I’m not really a slot machine.”

Spencer walked for nearly an hour before he found himself on the edge of Jackson Square with the sun going down and the breeze off the Mississippi picking up.  Instead of skirting around the plaza and continuing on his way, he turned and went through the one of the gates that surrounded the square and sat down on a bench next to an azalea bush in full bloom and pulled his phone out of his pocket.  Nine missed calls and eleven texts. All of them from either Emily or Morgan. He deleted them all unopened, turned his phone off, and stuck it back in his pocket.

He sighed.  Morgan meant well, he supposed, but scratch the surface and he was just like every other popular jock he’d run up against.  Loud, brash, convinced he knew everything both about himself and other people. So certain of his own way of seeing things he never worried about someone else’s. The only things he seemed to want was that Spencer do his job, take his teasing, and be grateful for whatever scraps of attention he decided to throw Reid’s way.

Emily’s hovering interference grated on his last nerve.  Talking down to him and treating him like he was less qualified than her, even though he’d been with the unit two years longer than she had.  He absolutely did not need some politician’s daughter showing up and telling him how to do his job.

“I’ll help you with that” he parroted, kicking a stone lying near his feet.  “Wouldn’t have been hired if I couldn’t do the job” he groused. “Did mommy get you your job?”

Gideon was the one whose reaction to everything that had happened in Georgia confused him.  For all his claims about wanting to mentor Spencer, coach him up, even hinting at desires for a paternal relationship, he had remained irritatingly disinterested in the fallout from his abduction.  He’d heard him tell Hotch more than once that Spencer “just needs some space.”

“Space to do what?” he muttered.  “Overdose in a precinct bathroom?”

He could understand Hotch’s willingness to go along with Gideon’s hands-off advice.  Anyone with a pair of eyes and a half-functional brain could see the cracks in the Hotchner household getting wider.  He knew, they all did really, that if Hotch let it get too far, those cracks would turn into “irreconcilable differences”.  With a frustrated wife and a young toddler, Hotch needed another work-related problem about as much as he needed another hole in the head, but it didn’t stop Spencer from feeling overlooked.  An extra body easily replaced.

Maybe, and the admission galled him, maybe Ethan had been right to give up on the FBI after that first day.  The Bureau was hard on its agents, and the work this team did was some of the most demanding out there. The misery of the human experience could burn even the most dedicated agents out; hell, they’d all seen what had happened to Gideon after Boston and Elle after the whole Randall Garner debacle.  While Spencer was good at profiling and he enjoyed it, the past year had shown him that none of them could truly keep the darkness from creeping in, and as much as he hated to say it, he had reached a breaking point that wasn’t recoverable.

Nodding to himself, Spencer stood and turned to start making his way back towards the hotel.  He considered picking up a cab, but after walking past two taxi stands with no cabs and people waiting three deep, he just kept walking.  The rest of the team would probably be out chasing down leads for at least the next few hours, which meant he would have plenty of time to get his things packed and get to the airport before anyone else would even think to come looking for him.  

Back at the hotel, Spencer made it to his room, but his earlier burst of purpose from Jackson Square fizzled and he collapsed onto the edge of the neatly made bed.  He dug into his bag and pulled out the two vials of dilaudid he’d taken to carrying with him everywhere. The two cool bottles gave him nothing beyond the clinical information on the labels and the seemingly inert liquid within.  He tightened his grip around the pair of small glass bottles until the grit of glass against glass made him relax his fingers.

He opened his fist and looked at the two vials lying innocuously in his palm.  One was still full, but the other had maybe one dose left in it. They weren’t the vials he’d liberated from Tobias; rather, they were the vials he’d talked the ER doctor he’d seen in Georgia into prescribing him.  Tobias’s vials had run out nearly two weeks ago, and while he hadn’t yet had to up his dose in response to tolerance, he knew that day was fast approaching.

He sighed and lay down on the bed still looking at the vials laying in his loosely curled palm.  The prospect of needing to start doctor shopping to support his...habit exhausted him to even think about, but so did the prospect of going back to work without the comforting buffer of the dilaudid between him and the rest of the world  A bubble of sympathy for Elle rose in his chest and he let it burst with a quiet sob. He closed his eyes to shut out the smooth, cold lines of the vials in his hand.

When he opened his eyes again, the character of the darkness around him had shifted from night into early morning.  Spencer sat up and sighed, ignoring the soft clink of the vials still in his hand. He’d meant to be packed and gone long before now, but a red-eye would get him to the same place as a last flight out would have done.  He dropped the vials back into his messenger bag then stood and gathered his clothes and folded them into his bag. A quick tour of the bathroom allowed him to brush his teeth and collect his toiletries. Back in the room, he made one final sweep for his personal belongings, zipped his go bag closed, then turned to grab his copy of the case file to return to Garcia when he got back to Virginia.  

After a quick rifle through the file to make sure nothing had fallen out, he shoved it into his messenger bag.  The folder refused to slot neatly into his bag, though, and when he pulled it open to see what it was catching on, his notebook and one of his mom’s letters were the only other things in the pocket.  He pulled them out to shove the folder in, but the postmark date on the envelope caught his eye.

It was the first letter he’d gotten from his mom after Elle had left.  He set his bag and notebook down in favor of turning the letter over in his hands.  He took it out of the envelope and unfolded it, but didn’t read it. He didn’t need to.  He trailed his fingertips across his mother’s tidy, even cursive, remembering what she’d told him.  How proud she was that he’d saved Rebecca. How obvious it was that he loved his friend even when she was suffering...especially when she was suffering.  

He gently folded her letter and put it back in the envelope.  He didn’t need to rush into anything. He could work the case, take the free flight home, and then figure out what the hell he was going to do.

 

~~*~~

 

Spencer’s alarm jolted him awake a couple hours later, and he dragged himself off the bed where he’d finally collapsed and into the bathroom.  He reached blindly for his toothbrush, but when his hand met only empty air, he groaned then turned and stumbled back into the room to dig his toiletries out of his go bag.  Thirty minutes later, he felt slightly more human with his teeth brushed, face washed, and clean clothes. A double check of his bag ensured he had his case file and his mom’s letter then he was out the door, determined to at least finish this case before he made any decisions.

Between stopping for coffee and arriving at the precinct, Spencer turned his phone back on, and once it finished booting, the avalanche of voicemails and texts almost made him turn it back off again.  He fired off a quick “Running late. Overslept.” to Hotch, and deleted the new ones from Morgan and Emily unopened. Unsurprisingly, no one else had even noticed he had gone AWOL last night, or had cared enough to try to contact him.  Only one other text sat in his inbox; it was from Ethan.

_You know I love you...please let me help you.  Call me if you need anything._

Spencer forwarded Ethan’s text to his personal phone then deleted it too.  

When he made it to the precinct, he hesitated outside, pacing and drinking his coffee while he tried to decide what to say to explain his absence.  He finally stopped himself mid-stride muttering “No one will probably even say anything.” Nodding to himself, Spencer pulled open the door to the station, determined to make today less of a mess than yesterday.

Morgan and Emily had set up shop on the conference table, making it impossible to bypass them.  Spencer made a beeline for the chair furthest from them both as he spoke. “Hey, you guys are back from Galveston?”  He was aiming for nonchalant, but he had a feeling he’d missed by quite a bit.

Morgan scowled down the table then up at him “First light this morning.  Where were you?”

Jesus, here we go.  “I was out with a friend.  I already told you.” Spencer set his coffee down and started digging his file and his notebook out of his bag.  The edge of his finger brushed against the cool glass of one of his vials, and only a desire to avoid a larger scene kept him from yanking his hand out of his bag.

“I called you four times,” Emily said patiently.  

Spencer scowled down at the notebook in his hands, but the window dressing for lies mattered, so he raised his eyes to meet Emily’s steadily.  “I didn’t have any cell phone reception, so I didn’t get your message until late.”

“Right.”  Emily rolled her eyes as she returned her attention to whatever she and Morgan had been working on.

“So what’s going on?” Spencer asked, flipping pages in his notebook trying to find where he’d left off yesterday.

“Our unsub’s a woman” Morgan snapped.  

Spencer found his place and scribbled “woman” before flipping back to the beginning of his case notes to start reevaluating the profile with a female unsub.  Clearly Morgan thought he was dropping some sort of bombshell with this whole unsub’s a woman business, and while women were less common, they weren’t the unicorns some profilers thought they were.  He sighed. Today was going to be unpleasant, from all angles, but if he could just put one foot in front of the other, he could gut this out then go home and figure out where to go from the BAU. Fortunately Hotch arriving with news of yet another body forestalled any more conversation about why Spencer hadn’t made the flight to Galveston.

 

~~*~~

 

“We need to be out there in those streets.”  Spencer parroted to himself as he finished brushing his hair in preparation for their evening out casing bars in the Quarter.  “Oh, do we? And how did I draw the straw that means having to spend the evening with you, Morgan?”

“Reid, you ready?” Morgan’s voice and accompanying knock jarred Spencer out of his thoughts.

“One second,” he answered.  He gave up on straightening his tie.  It would be dark…no one would notice if it was crooked.

He dug into the bottom of his dopp kit and pulled out the bottle of dilaudid tablets he’d convinced his doctor in Virginia to prescribe him when he’d gotten home to supplement the vials from Georgia.  He didn’t like the pills as much; the high wasn’t as intense and it seemed to wear off faster. They would work for tonight though. He popped a pair of pills under his tongue to let them start dissolving, reburied his bottle, tidied up the bathroom, then went to let Morgan in.

“You’re wearing that?” Morgan asked, giving Spencer a once over.

Spencer looked down at himself.  “What’s wrong with this?” he asked before waving a dismissive hand.  “It doesn’t matter. We’re running late.” He pushed past Morgan, heading for the elevators.

“Guess we’re going then,” Morgan muttered to himself then turned to follow Spencer out into the New Orleans night.

Two hours later, Spencer felt pleasantly insulated from the rest of the world behind the two pills he’d taken as he and Morgan lingered around one of the many terrace bars scattered up and down Bourbon Street looking for their unsub.

Spencer felt Morgan’s eyes on him as he ordered a club soda with lime and wound his way back to the table they had staked out.  He let Morgan keep staring as he sipped his drink and took stock of the patrons drinking and dancing around them.

“Hey,” Morgan started, plastering his “concerned older brother” look on.  “You gonna tell me why you missed that flight to Galveston?”

Spencer sighed.  This again. He trotted out his routine from earlier in the day: sustained eye contact to convey honesty, just enough indignation so he came off as tired of repeating himself rather than trying to hide something.  “I already told you, there was no cell reception.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, clearly skeptical.  “Right.”

“What?” Spencer demanded.  If Morgan was so convinced he was lying, which, okay, he was, but still, then why didn’t he just go straight to Gideon or Hotch instead of pretending this was something either of them could fix with a bro-hug.

Morgan gripped his arm.  “Reid, any time you want to come up with a better answer, I’m standing right here.”

Spencer ducked out of Morgan’s grasp.  “That’s the best answer I’ve got, I’m afraid.”  He turned his attention back to the partygoers around them and took a deep breath in an effort to settle his temper.  Coming up on three hours in the field meant he was well into the plateau of his high and he didn’t want Morgan’s “concerned” pestering to ruin his comedown, especially since he hadn’t brought anything else with him.

The brunette in the look-at-me dress he’d watched circulate through the terrace several times as the evening had worn on seemed to be zeroing in on a target.  Spencer set down his glass and nodded in her direction “Dark curls, three o’clock.”

Morgan honed in on her as she grabbed a man’s hand and started leading him to the exit.  “I see it.” He clapped Spencer on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

In the end dark-curls-red-dress hadn’t been their unsub, but two days later, they had the right woman in custody. Spencer paused in his progress taking down the case board when he got to Sarah’s picture tacked up right next to her rapists.  Someone, it looked like Emily, had written “trigger” under their photos and drawn an arrow to Sarah’s photograph. He couldn’t help but feel empathy for Sarah Danlin: yet another victim left to deal with the trauma someone else had forced on her.  Isolated until she got so sick of her own misery she snapped.

Spencer fished his personal phone out of his pocket and pulled up a new text window.

_Do you have time to talk?  Could I come by the club?_

He went back to pulling down the case board and packing up their things, allowing the quiet methodical rhythm of organizing their materials for travel to settle the shaking out of his hands.

His phone buzzed with a new message.

_I can always make time for you Spence.  I’ll be at the club by 5, but my first set doesn’t start till 6:30._

He smiled.  Even though Ethan had washed out of the Academy, he was still helping people his own way.

_I’ll be there around 5 then.  Service entrance again?_

_Yeah, man.  See you then._

Ethan was waiting for Spencer this time, and he just smiled at his friend as he let them in the back.

“You want a drink?” Ethan asked, sliding behind the bar and pouring himself a bourbon.

Spencer gripped the strap of his messenger bag reflexively and shook his head.  “No. I’m—I’m good.”

He perched on a stool and forced himself to let go of his bag and lay his hands flat against the bar.  This stopped them shaking just as well as anything else. “I um…” he took a deep breath. “I wanted to give you something.  Have you—have you get rid of it for me?”

Ethan stopped futzing with his drink and looked at Spencer.  Spencer offered him a small smile. He knew he looked a mess, but at least he felt like an honest mess, unlike the last time he’d come to visit.

“You…um…you were right.”  Spencer offered. “When I was here before?  I’m not fine.”

“Oh Spence,” Ethan murmured.  He came around the bar and pulled his friend into a tight embrace.  Spencer took a shaky breath against his neck then relaxed into the hug, finally letting the tears fall.  “Anything.” He whispered against Spencer’s hair. “Anything you need.”

They sat like that for several long moments, then Spencer squeezed Ethan’s waist before he finally let go and sat back.  He wiped his eyes hastily then pulled his bag up into his lap. “It’s…I can…”

Ethan chuckled.  “Just give me whatever you’ve got, man.  I’ll take care of the rest.”

Spencer nodded down at his hands as he dug through his bag.  “Okay.” He pulled out a cheap looking plastic zippered pouch and set it on the bar between them.  “This is everything. I’m…I know you have no reason to trust me, but it is.”

Ethan picked up the bag and just stared at it in his cradled hands for a beat before he looked up and met Spencer’s eyes.  “I know I’m like a thousand miles away—“

“One thousand one hundred seven, assuming you drive via Atlanta”

“Spencer!” Ethan cried, laughing through the tears that still threatened to fall.

“Sorry, sorry,” Spencer smiled sheepishly back at his friend.  “You know what I’m like.”

“I do,” Ethan agreed.  “Anyway. I know I’m like a thousand miles away, but if you need anything, please, please let me help.  Don’t think you have to do this by yourself.”

 

~~*~~

 

Flying home, Spencer curled himself into one of the seats in the back corner of the plane away from the team with a book open on his lap.  He riffled the edges of the pages as he read at a leisurely pace, letting the motion of his finger and the tiny noise his nail made against the pages keep him gently awake.  He barely registered Morgan dropping into the seat across from him until he spoke.

“Hey, you awake over there?”

Spencer took a deep breath and blinked up at him.  “Yeah. What’s up?”

Morgan sighed.  “Look, I--I’m worried about you, man.  Why’d you miss that flight?”

“I told you--”

“No, no, no” Morgan interrupted.  “I don’t care about _what_ happened.  I want to know _why_ it happened.”

Spencer closed his book and watched his fingers drum against the cover.  “I guess…” he shrugged. “I guess I wanted to see if I could walk away.”

“And…?”

Spencer shrugged diffidently.  “I’m not going to miss another plane.”

 

 

> Two people who are true friends are like two bodies with one soul.
> 
> ~~Chaim Potok


	2. Nothing "Just" about Today

 

> Some days, 24 hours is too much to stay put in, so I take the day hour by hour, moment by moment. I break the task, the challenge, the fear into small, bite-size pieces. I can handle a piece of fear, depression, anger, pain, sadness, loneliness, illness. I actually put my hands up to my face, one next to each eye, like blinders on a horse.
> 
> ~~Regina Brett

Spencer slammed his book closed and threw it on his coffee table where it slid across the surface and landed on the floor with a dull thud.  He scrubbed his hands over his face then rolled over to curl on his side with a defeated sigh.

Everyone held up the first week clean and the accompanying acute withdrawal as a cautionary tale and celebrated a year sober as a huge accomplishment, but no one talked about all the intervening days in between.  

No one mentioned day one hundred and twenty three when Gideon left with nothing but a letter to signal he’d even been a part of the BAU.  Spencer made it through that day in five minute stretches. He’d stacked enough five minute segments up that he’d finally been able to leave early, claiming illness.  He’d gone home and laid on his couch and watched afternoon turn into evening in five minute increments.

No one talked about day two hundred fifty seven when David Rossi, one of the founding members of the unit, rolled his eyes and looked at Spencer like he was a fucking fanboy when the only words he could muster were Rossi’s to begin with.  Spencer had never been so relieved it was Halloween and he could give the candy in his messenger bag to the kids who’d swarmed the crime scene tape. On the jet home, he’d pulled a bag of Jolly Ranchers out and forced himself to make each chapter of his book last as long as a piece of candy so he couldn’t say anything to embarrass himself or anyone else.  

No one breathed a word about day three hundred four, which was where Spencer found himself this evening.   Work had been okay. Nothing spectacular, but nothing soul crushing either. The trouble had started when he’d tried to settle down for the evening to unwind.  He wasn’t nearly as interested in the documentary he’d recorded on the DVR as he had been last night when he’d scheduled it. All the journals he got email updates for were still a week away from pushing out their new material.  He’d even put his pyjamas on in an attempt to get comfortable enough to fall asleep reading, but the Chekov anthology he’d picked up had drowned him in the banality of repetition rather than settle him. He picked up his phone and fired off a text to Ethan:

 _Do you ever get in those moods where you don’t feel like reading and you don’t feel like being on the internet and you don’t feel like watching a show and you don’t feel like sleeping and you don’t feel like existing in general?_

He set down his phone in favor of picking up the slim black notebook he’d taken to carrying with him everywhere.  He flipped through the pages, staring at his own handwriting summarizing and analyzing religious versus secular recovery.  Rationally, he knew the success rates of religious recovery didn’t carry much scientific weight, but on nights like tonight, when he felt like crawling out of his skin from boredom, he could understand the comfort of surrendering to something other than himself and his desire for comfort at the end of a needle.  He made it to the end of his notes on the efficacy of different treatment methods, and forced himself to slow down as he started reading the pages he’d written purely on his own. Notes, not about but to.

He’d started with a letter to Hotch, admitting how he’d struggled, especially after Georgia, to live up to what his boss expected of him.  He explained that the constant pressure to perform and the lack of any sort of acknowledgement had made him feel like little more than one of Garcia’s computers.  After he’d thought on it, he’d added that he finally saw that Hotch’s space and silence had simply been giving him some compassion and time to sort himself out. He apologized for just assuming Hotch would just swap him out like a defective cog if he showed the slightest hint of weakness, and committed to telling Hotch if he needed time.

He’d been angry when he’d written to Morgan, pouring his frustration onto the page at Morgan always treating him like a kid instead of an equally qualified professional.  He apologized, to himself as much as Morgan, for letting his frustration show in passive aggressive digs and snappish retorts instead of simply telling Morgan how his patronizing behavior frustrated and demeaned him.  He’d ended by committing to hashing out these kinds of issues like the grownup he claimed to be.

He’d struggled with the letter he’d written Emily.  Hers had taken him a few days to write, and he had several false starts that he’d struck through before he’d finally figured out what he needed to say to her.  He acknowledged he’d resented the way she’d crashed onto the team and immediately found a niche when he’d been struggling to figure out how he fit with the team for three years.  He apologized for behaving like she was an invader and using her newness as an excuse to treat her with a contempt she’d done nothing to deserve.

The last note remained unfinished, and it probably would for a while.  It was an amends to himself. It didn’t really even read like a proper amends after a while, so much as a stream of consciousness reflection of his day-to-day state of mind.  He had written three paragraphs of self-recrimination after the way their case in Chula Vista had turned out. And while he still saw Ryan Phillips nearly every time he closed his eyes, his imagination had started melding him with the families in Pittsburgh who’d all had their grief used against them.   His last addition had been just been a string of questions about the validity of the amends process if it could be so easily manipulated; whether he was just manipulating himself in a vain attempt to stave off addiction for one more day.

“Just for today” he murmured to himself.  The trouble with “just for today” was the rows and rows of neat red Xs on the calendar hanging in his bedroom only made the crushing weight of expectation heavier.  It was never “just” today. It was all of the days that had come before “just” today and all of the days that stretched endlessly after.

His phone pinged softly from its spot on the coffee table.

_174 Perine...there’s a meeting starting in less than an hour that’s especially for cops._

Spencer rolled his eyes and pecked out his answer then dropped his phone onto his chest.

_I’ve read their literature, and I don’t really think I’m a “meeting” kind of guy.  Don’t have enough Jesus in me._

Maybe he could give his book another go.  At least that wouldn’t involve getting dressed again.

_I know the address is a church, but this one says it’s secular and limited to those recovering in law enforcement.  Give it a try...at the worst it gets you out of the house for a while._

Spencer glanced at the time on his phone and sighed.  Ethan made a good point. Sitting up, he typed out his reply.  

_Okay.  But if it’s awful, I’m blaming you._

 

**~~*~~**

 

Spencer clipped his badge onto his belt as he walked across the parking lot towards the church hosting the meeting.  He slipped into the back of the church hall just before the meeting’s posted start time, feeling out of place and hoping no one would talk to him.  The weight of his notebook felt crushing in his pocket as he glanced around, looking for an aisle seat near the back, but before he could slide into a spot, a tall man with a shock of white hair hurried over and intercepted him.

“Now, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before, have I?” He asked, smiling warmly and extending his hand.

Spencer clasped his hand as briefly as politeness would allow then crossed his arms across his chest.  “No, I--ah--I’m--”

The man clapped his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, forestalling his stammering.  “I’m Hugh.” He said pleasantly. He pointed at Spencer’s badge. “I can see you’re one of us.”  

Spencer nodded dumbly.

“Well, I’m glad you could join us.  So you know, we are a sharing kind of a group,” Hugh continued, steering Spencer towards the front rows already populated with attendees who had arrived earlier.

Spencer cleared his throat, “I’m--I’m not sure I’m really comfortable talking my first time here.”

Hugh guided Spencer into an open seat then dropped into the chair next to him.  “I understand it can feel a little intimidating, especially your first time, but we’ve found it’s helpful to get our participants talking, whether you’re sharing a victory or a challenge.  You don’t have to go first and you don’t have to tell us your whole life story, but a little bit about why you’re here tonight can really help both you and our other attendees.”

Spencer clenched his hands where they were folded against his torso and nodded hesitantly.  “I--I can try to do that.”

Hugh nodded his approval.  “Your best effort is all we can ask for.”  With a final pat on Spencer’s shoulder, he rose and moved back towards the door to greet the last few stragglers.

As soon as he walked away, Spencer pulled his phone out of his pocket.

_You didn’t tell me this was a meeting that encouraged sharing...what the hell am I going to say?_

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead he silenced his phone and jammed it back in his pocket as Hugh stepped to the front of the room to get the meeting started.  

Spencer clasped his hands in his lap to try to keep them still and shut his eyes to try to tune out the people next to him, but even with his eyes closed, he couldn’t ignore everything.  Like the way the man sitting next to him shifted every twenty seconds. Or the way the woman behind him and to the left said “I know that’s right” every time someone said anything she agreed with.  

He was so focused on breathing slowly and evenly and the slight tingle in his fingers from having them so tightly clenched that he almost missed Hugh saying, “Now I’ve seen some new faces this evening, and if any of you would like to introduce yourselves or share, we’d like to open the floor to you first.”

Wanting to simply get it over with, Spencer stood on shaky legs and smoothed his hands down his trousers.  Hugh smiled warmly and motioned him forward, and Spencer walked towards the table at the front to the sound of polite applause.

“It’s just a profile,” he muttered to himself as he made his way down the aisle.

Spencer got to the front, and offered the attendees a small smile.  He slipped his hands into his pockets, and his fingers brushed the edges of his notebook.  He wrapped his hand around the book, trying to make himself project a calm he didn’t feel.

“Hi.  Um...my name’s Spencer, and I...I’m not really sure what I am.”

“Hello, Spencer.”  

Spencer’s lips twitched with a shadow of a smile, and he took a deep breath and forged ahead before he could lose his nerve.  

“This is my--my first meeting…”  He trailed off, unsure how to start whatever they wanted him to say.  

A few of the other attendees responded with a quiet chorus of “Welcome.”

Spencer clenched his hands in his pockets and took another breath.  He’d held his addiction and his recovery so close for so long that to all of a sudden talk about it, with strangers no less, seemed bizarre and exposing.

“I...um...I guess…” Spencer huffed a quiet laugh at his own prevarication.  “I _know_ I had a problem with...” one last breath to steel himself “Dilaudid.”

Once it was out and no one reacted, Spencer felt himself relax.

“But I stopped.  Ten months ago, I stopped.”  He smiled ruefully as he continued.  “I thought I was through the worst of it, but recently, I’m--I’ve been…” he sighed, suddenly tired.  “The term your literature uses is ‘craving.’”

He barely had the energy or mental fortitude to go through the whole story again: the pair of kidnapped girls, the race to find Lindsey, the standoff in a freezing high school bathroom between a grown man who literally killed people for a living and a teenage boy who masked his fear poorly behind bravado, and worst of all, Lindsey goading her father into pulling the trigger.  

He grimaced when his phone started vibrating in his pocket.  He pulled it out and killed the call without sparing a glance at the caller ID.  “Sorry.”

Spencer crossed his arms over his chest and gripped his hands into fists against his ribs, trying to refocus.  He took a shaking breath and got to the real reason he’d been laying on his couch flipping through his notebook like his life depended on it. “You know it’s really--uh--I can’t just…”

He freed his right hand and scrubbed at his eye.  “I want to forget. About him. I just want to escape.”

He grimaced as his phone started vibrating again.  He pulled it out of his pocket with shaking fingers and scowled at JJ’s name on the caller ID.  He rejected the call and stammered, “I...I have to...I’m sorry.”

He made for the door, hunching his shoulders against the murmured “Thank you, Spencer” that followed him out into the breezeway.  Outside the parish hall, he fumbled his keys out of his pocket, then almost dropped them when his hands wouldn’t settle. “Dammit,” he muttered shaking his keys straight and praying he still had a go bag at his desk since there wasn’t one in the back of his car.

“Spencer?”  A voice echoed down the breezeway after him.

He waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder without looking back.  “I have to go.”

“Places to go?  People to profile?” the voice asked, a hint of laughter attempting to take the sting out of the question.

Spencer whipped around.  The point of _anonymous_ was supposed to be that no one knew who he--

“I--I’m sorry.  I didn’t expect to see someone of your position here, Sir.”  

The deputy director of the FBI stood in front of him, a small smile on his face.  “No ‘sir’ here...here it’s just John.”

Spencer nodded silently and shook the hand John stretched out to him.  He felt himself blush at the searching look John gave him as he stood there clenching his keys in his other hand and trying to calculate just how late he was going to be the longer he stood here making nice with the number two man in the Bureau.  

When he drew his hand back, the cool weight of metal rested in his palm.  John pointed to the coin Spencer now cradled in his hand. “That’s my one year.  Took me six years to earn it, and now I never go anywhere without it.”

Spencer turned the coin over, examining the words of the Gratitude Prayer engraved on the opposite face.  He watched as he ran his thumb over the letters, letting their texture bleed into his skin. John closed Spencer’s hand around the coin with both of his.  “You hold onto this for me.”

Spencer looked up, startled, to see John smiling at him.  “But...but it’s your most prized possession.”

John nodded, his small smile still in place.  “I know.” He patted Spencer’s hand like he was making sure the coin was still locked inside then released him.

“But I only have ten months.”  Spencer felt his shock slip into confusion the longer he stood holding John’s coin.

“I know.”  John repeated.  He stepped back, clearly preparing to disengage from the conversation so Spencer could get to work.

His confusion held him in place, “I don’t understand.”

“You will.”  That smile was back, small and knowing.  John nodded once in farewell, then turned and headed back into the meeting.

Spencer stood rooted to the spot, John’s one year medallion still clasped in his hand.  His phone vibrating in his pocket for the third time made him jump. He curled his fingers tighter around the coin and hurried to his car.  

Once inside his car, he tucked the medallion into the pocket of his messenger bag where he had kept his stash when he’d been using.  He rolled his eyes at himself...like a piece of metal could somehow erase the memory of the vials that haunted that corner of his bag.  Still, he couldn’t deny the comfort in the symbolism.

He fired off a text to Ethan: _I didn’t hate it...it may have actually helped a little.  Also, I think I met someone._

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting stock still on I-95 behind a jackknifed semi.  As the dashboard clock clicked over to the time on his recall orders, Spencer rested his head on the steering wheel and groaned.  He was practically at his exit, but the Amazon’s low clearance meant he didn’t dare try to cut across the verge to the frontage road.  His phone pinged from its spot in the console:

_You met someone? Should I be jealous?!_

Spencer rolled his eyes.  Ethan would focus on that and not the fact that the meeting might have pulled him off the ledge.

_Yeah._

_To meeting someone._

_Not the jealousy._

The traffic in front of him inched forward.  Throwing on his signal made the Jeep in front of him scoot forward enough that he could finally sneak around and onto the off ramp.  Waiting at the light to turn onto base, he sent Ethan one more message:

_I’m on my way into work, so I’ll be out of pocket for a while._

Once he finally made it into the building and into the elevator, he pulled his personal phone out one more time to silence it, and Ethan’s response made him smile:

_I’m glad it helped.  Make sure you’re taking care of you._

The elevator opened with a metallic ding, and Spencer hurried into the BAU, cursing semi truck drivers who couldn’t figure out how to correct a skid.

“Sorry I’m late,” Spencer huffed as he trotted into the briefing room, pulling his bag off as he went.

“I hope she was worth it,” Rossi muttered.

Morgan turned from the coffee station and punched Spencer in the arm.  “I hope it was a she” He laughed at his own joke.

Spencer rolled his eyes into his bag while he fished for his case notebook and a pen; Morgan thought he was hilarious.  He blurted the first thing he could think of, “I was at the movies.”

Rossi looked up at him, suddenly interested.  “Oh, really. Why don’t you tell us what it was about?”

Spencer blushed to the roots of his hair.  “I...uh...I had to leave early, so I didn’t really--”

“I know it’s late and we’re all tired,” Hotch broke in, forestalling any more speculation on why Spencer had come running in late.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and as Hotch started going through the briefing, Spencer alternated between jotting notes on the case down and doodling idly in the margin of the empty page in his notebook, trying to keep his hands busy.  He stopped when the vine he’d been drawing got to the bottom of the page, then started back up the page adding ivy leaves and little swirls of twigs. When his embellishments made it back to the top, he tried to tune back in, but he couldn’t help rolling his eyes at Morgan dismissing the possibility of terrorism out of hand.  Kaczynski had lived in a small town after all.

“You okay, kid?” Rossi murmured under Hotch and JJ’s assessment of the current border security situation and released them to do their call outs and gather their things.

Spencer flipped his notebook closed and answered without meeting Rossi’s eye.  “Fine.”

He scooped up the rest of his things and retreated to his desk.  He pulled a few reference materials on lone wolf bombers and stuffed them in his messenger bag with his case file.  Thankfully he had a go bag stashed in the leg space under his desk, and he pulled it out to make sure it was still full.  He took his time rifling through the week’s worth of clothes and unzipping the dopp kit to make sure everything was in order.  Keys and personal phone all went into the innermost pocket of his go bag so they wouldn’t get lost, and he was about to zip up and head for the runway when he remembered the small notebook sitting innocently in his pants pocket.  

Spencer pulled it out and opened to the first page that only had one thing written on it.  Under the phrase “Just for today” that he’d written in red ink with a fountain pen he’d picked up at a second hand store the day he’d gotten home from New Orleans, he took a sinfully smooth gel pen out of the jar on his desk and wrote “Make sure you’re taking care of you.”

 

> There is no picturesque version of what self-care looks like; it's different for every person who wants to practice it.
> 
> ~~Jenna Wortham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's taken a moment to leave kudos and comments.


	3. High School Never Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the wait, y'all. Between work and school I barely had any time to write for fun since I posted chapter 2.

 

> Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.
> 
> ~~Aristotle

 

Pulling up in front of the Savage house, Spencer left the car running so the AC could have half a hope of keeping up with the August heat.  He opened the flap of his bag and started fishing for his personal cell. But when he came up empty, he remembered he had left it in his go bag.  Instead, he had his work phone out and Ethan’s number keyed in almost without thinking, but his thumb hovered over the call button, refusing to finish the action.  

“You’ve  _ seen _ Rossi call his publisher on his work phone,” Spencer snapped at himself, forcing his attention back to the phone in his hand in an effort to make himself to just complete the call.  He stared at the number still on his dial screen...no contact name since his best friend wasn’t a co-worker. He sat frozen, wavering over breaking protocol by making a personal call on his Bureau-issued phone or breaking protocol by trying to figure out how to score in a tiny Texas town.

In the end, he stabbed the back button until the dialing screen was empty and dropped it on top of his bag.  “Grow up. You are a professional. You don’t need... _ coddling _ ,” Spencer growled, throwing the car into gear and pulling out into the afternoon traffic.  He absolutely did not need Hotch calling Morgan to check on him like some sort of probie.

Turning his attention to the Savage house, the sudden flash of sunlight off the glass inset on the front door as it opened made Spencer jump and drop the keys as his phone slid into the footwell.  “Because I need to drop more shit down there,” he muttered, gathering his scattered things and finally getting out of the suburban.

“I thought y’all had gone to talk to Owen’s teachers?” the deputy asked as he trotted down the porch stairs.

Spencer refused to meet the deputy’s eye as he answered, “Uh, yeah, but Morgan apparently needs help with the tech.”  He pushed past and up onto the porch and into the house before the dumbfounded deputy could reply. 

Inside, Morgan’s voice on the phone with Garcia floated down the hall.  Spencer tapped on the doorframe to Owen’s room to announce himself before he slipped inside.  

Morgan stopped pacing and nodded to Spencer in greeting.  “Hey, Baby Girl, lemme call you back, Reid just got here.”  He snapped his phone closed and frowned at Spencer. “I thought you were helping Hotch?”

Spencer dropped his bag next to the desk and shrugged as he sat down in front of the computer and started clicking through to Owen’s email account.  “He said you needed help.” 

“Seriously?” Morgan asked.  “It’s just a profile of his space and a hard drive search.  I can handle it.” He stared at Spencer’s rigid posture in Owen’s chair.  “Unless...did something happen at the station?”

Spencer blinked hard at the inbox he’d managed to pull up, trying to focus on the emails in front of him and not the anger-driven cravings biting at the edges of his attention.  “It’s fine.”

He pulled out his casebook and a pen then clicked on the oldest email and started reading, praying Morgan would just let it drop for now.  The stillness of Morgan’s silent profiling continued behind him until he finally snapped, “Have you finished going through the rest of his room?”

“I’ll get right on that,” Morgan replied with a huff of quiet laughter.

They worked in silence for close to an hour. The only sounds in the room were the quiet click of the mouse and keyboard as Spencer trawled through Owen’s emails, occasionally making notes on patterns in messages, and the slide of dresser drawers and the thump and flick of books as Morgan picked them up, flipped through them, and set them back down.  

After easily the tenth email to Jordan saying he loved her and that she was the only thing keeping him from killing himself or shooting up the school, Spencer had to take a break.  He flopped back in the stiff chair with a frustrated groan and scrubbed his hands over his eyes.

Morgan looked up from the chemistry textbook he’d been leafing through and occasionally pulling out notes Jordan had left for Owen between the pages.  “You okay?”

“Fine,” Spencer snapped, rolling back up and opening a new email.  If he kept plugging away at this, then maybe he would find something that would let them bring Owen in in something other than a body bag.  

He heard the textbook clap closed behind him.  “Reid.” Spencer stopped reading at Morgan’s quietly insistent tone.  He continued more gently, “You know you’re not the only one who identifies with this kid.”

Spencer turned around in his chair and met Morgan’s eyes, but he didn’t offer anything beyond his attention.  He seemed sincere, but Spencer had learned a long time ago not to trust the popular kids when they looked at him like this.

“You know how you said I was a jock?”  Morgan waited until Spencer nodded. “I wasn’t.  Not at first, anyway. When I was a freshman, I was maybe five three and I weighed a buck twenty soaking wet...after lunch.” Morgan smirked at that memory of his younger self.  “So trust me when I say, I got my ass beat every single day.” 

Spencer offered Morgan a tiny smile to show he was listening.

Morgan took that as his cue to continue.  “So you know what I did? That summer I hit the weights.  I kept playin’ ball. And I got lucky and grew six inches.”  Morgan took a deep breath before he finished. “You know, it wasn’t about vanity though.  It was about survival, plain and simple.”

The spectre of Carl Buford hung between them, unvoiced but present. 

Spencer closed his eyes against the look on Morgan’s face that seemed like he cared about why Spencer had been so uneven and took a deep breath.  Hugh’s words from last night jumped up at him:  _ you don’t have to tell us your whole life story, but a little bit about why you’re here tonight can really help you _ .

Spencer dropped his eyes to the top rail of the chair he was now sitting sideways in.  “I--I was in the library, and...uh...Harper Hillman comes up to me, and she tells me--” he took a breath, willing himself to continue now that he’d started.  “She tells me Alexa Lisbon--who’s easily the prettiest girl in school--that Alexa wants to meet me behind the field house.” Spencer blinked rapidly trying to dismiss the humiliation that still felt as fresh as if this conversation had happened ten minutes ago.

Morgan ducked his head, trying to catch Spencer’s gaze as he spoke, “So what happened?  She wasn’t there?”

The cold laugh he directed at this vision of his younger self had nothing to do with humor.  “Oh, no. She was there. So was the entire football team. And all the cheerleaders. And most of the baseball team.  They...uh...they stripped me naked and tied me to the goal post.” Spencer took a steadying breath.

“There were so many kids there just...watching.”

“Nobody tried to help you?” Morgan demanded.

Spencer shook his head.  “I begged them--I  _ begged _ them to, but they just...they just stood there.”

Spencer took a deep breath and got hold of himself.  Morgan didn’t have any desire to deal with him having a breakdown over something that had happened when he was eleven.  “They finally got bored and left, but it was...it was midnight by the time I finally got loose and made it home.” 

He shrugged.  “Mom was having an episode, so she didn’t even notice I was missing.”

When Morgan finally spoke, his voice carried a sharpness Spencer hadn’t expected.  “You never told me any of this.”

Spencer snapped back at the accusation in Morgan’s voice.  “I never told  _ anyone _ .  I just...I just want to forget.”

“You should have--”

“Why should I have?”  Spencer demanded. “You don’t have to tell me everything about your past, so why does that somehow mean I owe you something more?”

Especially not the person who’d made his first year and a half in the BAU a reminder that high school never truly ended.

Morgan sighed, softening.  “What I meant was, you should have felt like you  _ could _ tell me this.  If you wanted to.”

Spencer turned back to the computer to hide his eye roll.  “We need to finish this.”

They went back to work in silence.  Spencer glared stonily at the emails and his notes, refusing to give in to the conditional compassion Morgan only offered when it suited him.

He finished the last email and added a final line to his notes before he spoke his conclusion aloud.  “He makes a big deal about saying goodbye to Jordan in all of their emails. He never just ends any of their correspondence.  Neither does she.”

“He never got to say goodbye to his mom, so her death probably left him with some serious abandonment issues,” Morgan offered.

Spencer nodded, tapping his pen idly against his chin as he reread his notes.  “He thinks she’ll never leave,” he murmured.

“If we can get Jordan away from him, we’ll save her,” Morgan pointed out.

“Save her and take away his reason to live,” Spencer muttered.  

Morgan grabbed Spencer’s shoulder.  “Jordan doesn’t know what Owen’s done.  She doesn’t have any idea what kind of danger she’s in.”

Spencer shook Morgan’s hand off; he couldn’t bear the weight of his earnest concern right now.  “Even if we could talk to her, she doesn’t know us. We’re just more adults who won’t listen to her.  Or Owen. She’ll ignore us to protect Owen in a heartbeat.”

“I still think it’s an angle we oughta try,” Morgan persisted.

“Fine.”  Spencer shoved his things back into his bag and stood to leave.  He levelled a hard stare at Morgan before he spoke again. “But don’t act surprised when this doesn’t work the way you think it will.”

 

~~*~~

 

The possibility of getting out of West Bune without some sort of hideous confrontation kept shrinking until Spencer found himself out at the Stratman Ranch with half the team and the sheriff and a handful of his deputies.  A worry that only grew when Hotch ordered them into vests and reminded them to consider Owen armed and extremely dangerous.

Hotch asked the locals to clear the building, and as they headed into the one-story ranch-style home, Spencer could hear their optimism that Owen would probably just surrender and this would all be over by lunchtime.  Since Owen had demonstrated he had absolutely no problem shooting his bullies on a livestream, Spencer didn’t have many illusions about a neat, bloodless conclusion at this point.

Spencer’s phone rang as he got out of the Suburban, so he lost step as he fumbled it out of his pocket.  Nothing from the house yet. Deep breath and answer. “Prentiss? What’s up?”

“Hey, Reid.”  Prentiss sounded more concerned than the last time they’d spoken.  “You’re not going to believe who just walked into the sheriff’s office.”

“You would sound more relieved if it was Owen,” Spencer pointed out.

“You got that right,” she answered with a bitter laugh.  “It’s Jordan. She just walked in, asked for the FBI then burst into tears.”

“Score one for emotional manipulation,” Spencer muttered.  

He traced the toe of his shoe along a rut in the driveway and squinted up at the house.  Thankfully he could only hear the deputies clearing the building. He kicked a rock towards their SUV.  The sharp ping of the ricochet off the wheel made him flinch.

“What was that?” Prentiss asked.

“Nothing,” he said.   “Has she said anything else?  I’m assuming you wouldn’t have called if she was still incoherent.”

“Yeah, she said Owen was digging at the far end of the yard and she thought she saw a body, so she ran.”

Spencer sighed. Now Owen’s last reason for restraint had abandoned him too.  “Okay. I’ll let Hotch know. Thanks, Prentiss.”

“Sure.  I’ll call if she gives us anything else.”

Spencer ended the call and started making his way towards the house, kicking loose stones in the driveway in front of him.

Before he made it all the way up the drive, one of the deputies came barrelling out of the house waving a note sealed in a plastic evidence bag.  “Hey, look’it this.”

Hotch took the bag, his frown deepening as he read.  “‘I’m going to return my mom’s necklace.’” He looked up at Spencer.  “Do you think he’s going home?”

Spencer shrugged noncommittally, but his gut twisted sharply.  “Morgan and I didn’t find it, but it could still be there.”

Hotch nodded at the sheriff and the deputy who’d brought the note out.  “Sheriff Halum, you take the house.” The sheriff nodded and went to round up his men.  Hotch turned to the rest of the team. “Do we know where his mom’s buried?”

The urge to vomit rose at the back of his throat, and Spencer couldn’t start stripping off his vest fast enough.  His fingers slipped and scrabbled over the velcro at his shoulder, refusing to simply cooperate. He abandoned his shoulder in favor of tearing at the torso closures.  

“Reid?” Hotch demanded.  “What are you doing?”

He finally ripped his vest open, and after he tugged the it over his head, his breath came easier without the crushing weight of responsibility the kevlar carried.  

“He’s going to force us to kill him.”  

Hotch grabbed his arm.  “What are you--”

“I can’t.”  Spencer pulled himself loose.  “I can’t be a part of that.” He shoved his vest into Hotch’s chest then turned down the driveway and started for the SUV, not waiting to see if Hotch caught his vest or not.  

“Reid!” Hotch called.

“You don’t need me,” Spencer tossed over his shoulder.

“Meet us back at the station,” Hotch snapped.  

Spencer didn’t answer; he just yanked open the SUV door and jumped in.  As he slid behind the wheel and gunned the engine, Rossi turned towards Hotch and asked him something that looked an awful lot like “what the fuck was that about.”  

What the fuck it was about was a kid everyone else had given up on.  

 

~~*~~

 

As he drove back to town far faster than the 70 miles per hour the speed limit allowed, Spencer reflected that this was, in all likelihood, the thing that would make Hotch demand he leave the team.  No one had cared about him as long as he’d been doing the work without making any waves, but he’d be damned if he’d stand aside and let someone else’s son get shot if he could help it. Especially a kid everyone else had clearly written off as a lot cause.

“Maybe I’m  _ not _ cut out for this,” he muttered.  He’d worried he was too soft for this job when Gideon had first recruited him.  Too gentle. All Chula Vista had done was remind him of that. They’d come home and he’d barely slept for a week; his brain spinning out scenario after scenario trying to find the one that didn’t end with a seventeen year old boy dead on a bathroom floor.

And now another boy was staring down the barrel of a gun, and the thought of seeing another kid dead at his feet when he could prevent it made the insubordination charge headed his way seem like nothing.

Spencer pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office and headed inside, looking for Jordan.  He caught sight of her sitting in one of the interview rooms, and ran in, grabbing the arms of her chair to force her attention.  “They think he’s going to his mother’s grave,” Spencer said without preamble.

“Isn’t he?” Prentiss asked.  “Hotch seemed pretty sure when he called.”

“The necklace.”   Spencer demanded, making Jordan refocus on him.  “He gave it to you, didn’t he?”

“He--he did, but I--I left it at the ranch,” she stammered, darting wide-eyed glances between Spencer and Prentiss.

Of course...he thought she’d walked out on him.  Abandoned him, just like everyone else who’d claimed to love him.  Spencer stood and took a deep breath. 

Prentiss took a step towards him, but stopped when she saw the resignation on his face.  “What’re you--”

“He’s coming here.”  Spencer walked out of the interview room, headed for the kid he’d almost turned into.  

“Call Hotch…”  

Spencer tuned out the rest of what Prentiss was saying as he made his way towards the front of the sheriff’s office, calm for the first time since they’d gotten here.  Owen deserved at least one person who listened...really listened, even if it did turn out to be too little too late, and Spencer could do that for him.

He heard the quick clack of Prentiss’s footsteps catching up to him as he pushed out into the bright Texas sunshine.  

“What makes you think he’ll come here?” she asked as she followed him out onto the pavement.

He shrugged, squinting up and down the street.  “It’s what I would have done.”

Her sharp inhale almost made him smile.  More to precious Doctor Reid than met the eye after all he thought bitterly.  

A truck door slamming drew his attention.  Owen knew exactly what he wanted, so Spencer needed to be just as determined.  He’d been able to smell hypocrisy a mile away as a teenager. Owen wouldn’t be any different.

He pulled his Glock from its holster, but instead of preparing to draw down on Owen, he turned and handed it to Emily.  “Cover me.”

“Wh--what?  Reid!” Emily fumbled to catch his gun, a look of confusion on her face.  

He looked back at her, his expression brooking no opposition.  “Do not shoot.”

Emily’s eyes widened, and her panicked voice followed him into the street.  “Reid!” 

Owen came around the corner, the M4A1 he’d stolen from his dad’s gun safe cocked on his shoulder and his finger on the trigger.  

Spencer stepped out into the street, willing himself to stop trembling.  He could do this. 

“Owen!”  Spencer called.  He held his empty hands up in hopes that would be enough to get Owen to listen to him.  

Owen stopped short, dropping the barrel of his gun.  Spencer exhaled. “Owen, my name is Spencer, and I’m with the FBI.”

“You need to stay back,” Owen snarled, recovering enough to re-shoulder his weapon and point it straight at Spencer’s chest.

“I’m not armed,” Spencer replied calmly.  “I’m not armed, and I just want to help you.”

Owen hesitated, looking at Spencer like he was speaking a foreign language, but he recovered quickly and shook the barrel of his gun at Spencer.  “I told you to stay back.”

Spencer glanced back at the sound of squealing tires and saw the SUV with Hotch and the rest of the team pull up.  Before the car even came to a complete stop, Morgan and Rossi jumped out, guns drawn, and Hotch wasn’t far behind, his gun out as well.  

The three of them plus Prentiss all had weapons trained on Owen, and he knew at least Hotch had about run out of patience with him.  With another glance back at the rest of his team, Spencer stepped between them and Owen, ruining their line of sight. 

He heard the rumble of Hotch’s voice behind him asking a question and Rossi’s snapped “He’s blocking our shot.” 

He refused to let them take out their irritation with him on this kid, so Spencer turned his back on the team and refocused on trying to end this without gunfire.  “Owen, I...I know--”

“What could you possibly know about me?”  Owen demanded sharply.

“Your dad?  Rod Norris? Kyle Borden?  I know all about them. And I know--I  _ know _ the harder you tried, the worse it got.”

“Not a single person ever tried to listen to me.  To help me.” Owen shot back. “Why would you be any different?”

“I know it feels like all you’ve done is try.  And try. And try. And--and no matter what you did, no matter what you said, it felt like everyone just stood there and watched you suffer.  No one even tried to help, did they?”

Owen jerked his head in a tight shake.  “No--no one even tried.”

“And I know...I know that makes you want to escape.  And forget.” Spencer took a deep breath, willing himself to stop shaking, to focus on communicating with Owen instead of just talking over him.  “Please believe me...I know  _ exactly _ how that feels.  But we can’t. You can’t.  You can’t just let go of your own life like that.”

Owen stared at Spencer, and for just a moment, his eyes softened the tiniest fraction.  In the span of those seconds, Spencer could see the young man who’d inspired such faith in Jordan.

But he did not hear the compassion in Spencer’s offer.  Instead, he shook his head and dropped his gaze to the gun in his hands.  “None of that matters. I’m dead already.”

“You’re not.”  Spencer argued as he took a tentative step forward.  “You would never leave Jordan alone if you could help it, right?”  

Owen continued staring at his hands wrapped around the gun.  He refused to answer.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Spencer pressed.  “Please, just put the gun down.”

“You bring her out here, and I will.”

Of course he wanted the one thing Spencer couldn’t give.  He sighed. “I can’t do that.”

“Then you know my answer too,” Owen shot back.

The restless shifting from behind the cover of the SUV reminded Spencer he was running out of time, from all sides.  

“Please,” Spencer begged.  “I can’t bring her out here, but if you put the gun down, I will take you to her.  You can talk to her. You can say goodbye. You won’t have to abandon her.”

“You promise?”  

Spencer shut his eyes against the disbelief and hope warring in Owen’s voice.  “I swear to God.”

The shoulder strap of the assault rifle shuffled softly against Owen’s coat as he finally lowered the weapon to his side and raised his hands, empty except for the delicate silver chain draped over his thumb.  “O--okay.”

Spencer closed the distance between them in a few quick strides and removed the gun from Owen’s shoulder.  He threw it down in the street, unwilling to touch the cold, lifeless metal any longer than he absolutely had to.  He gripped Owen by the shoulder, letting him lower his hands without bothering to restrain him as he spoke softly. “Okay.  It’s okay. Let’s go inside.” 

Before they had gone three steps, Morgan joined them, shaking his cuffs loose from their holster on his belt.  “It’s over, Reid.” He started to reach for Owen’s wrists. “Let’s go, kid.”

Spencer threw out his arm to ward Morgan off.  “He’s fine like he is, Morgan. Let him say goodbye to the one person in his life who listened to him.”

“But kid--”

“Don’t.”  Spencer fixed Morgan with a hard stare.  “Don’t ‘but kid me.’ He’s fine. I’m fine.  It’s fine.” He tossed his head in the direction of the gun laying in the street.  “If you want to help, deal with that.” 

They walked, Spencer escorting Owen, back up the street to the sheriff’s office, and Morgan didn't follow.  Prentiss held out his gun and opened her mouth to say something, but Spencer just brushed past her, tugging Owen along with him.

Once they made it into the office, Owen shrank back against the hand gripping his arm.  “I don’t want anyone else to...” he trailed off, uncertainty in his eyes

Spencer offered Owen a ghost of a smile as he shook his head.  “I’ll take care of it.”

JJ met them at the door to the interview room where they’d sequestered Jordan.  “Spence, how could you--”

“Please don’t.  Not right now.”

"But--"

Spencer turned on her and snapped, "JJ, I said don't."

JJ looked at him then silently nodded and slipped past him and out of the room.

Once JJ left, he guided Owen into the room, so the kid could say his piece.  “I can’t leave you alone with her.”

He nodded at Spencer, but he only had eyes for Jordan.  “I--I know.” 

Spencer closed the interview room door and collapsed against the doorframe.  He shut his eyes, suddenly tired and completely uninterested in either the conversation happening in the room with him or the fallout he knew was coming after they got this mess wrapped up.  While Owen and Jordan spoke through their tears, Spencer tried not to let Owen’s future spin out in front of his mind’s eye. He didn’t think he could stand to picture the reality behind all the statistics he knew about incarceration and execution rates in Texas.  

“Mr...Mr. Reid?”

Spencer opened his eyes to see Owen standing in front of him, blank face firmly in place like he still couldn’t show the slightest chink in his armor.  “I’m ready.”

Spencer straightened and nodded.  “I can only go with you as far as booking.  Then the locals have to take over.”

“Yeah.”  Owen smirked and pointed at himself when Spencer quirked an eyebrow in question.  “Sheriff’s kid.”

His answering smile felt thin, but if Owen could get through this with a brave face, then so could he.

“I never meant to hurt her,” Owen mumbled as Spencer escorted him back towards booking.

“I know.  So does she.”

At the processing desk, Spencer let go of Owen’s arm with a small squeeze.  “I’m sorry.”

Owen shook his head.  “You listened. Thank you for that.”

“You ready, hon?”  The booking sergeant asked, cutting off any further conversation.

“I--Yeah.”  With a last look back, Owen stepped to the desk to begin the process of answering for what he’d done.

Spencer watched until Owen stepped behind the backdrop for his mug shots; irrationally afraid losing sight of him would mean abandoning him once again.  The click of the camera’s shutter and the sergeant's soft directions snapped him back to reality. “He’ll be fine,” he muttered to himself. 

Prentiss met him in the hallway that connected the main bullpen to the processing area.  “Hey, I was looking for you.” She held out his gun, “You’ll need this.”

The slick slide of oiled metal against his hand nearly made him gag, and he pushed the gun back into her hands.  “You hold onto that. I don’t want it.”

“Reid--”

“Please, Emily.  Just...don’t.”

Emily’s sharp dark eyes bored into him, prying up his carefully constructed facade and really seeing him.  She reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. “Spencer, are you okay?”

He dropped his gaze to the floor, unwilling to let her see the exhaustion and desperation he was sure lurked in his eyes.  “I’m…” He started then stopped. He'd spent this whole time sure he was alone. That no one wanted to help him. That was the thing though.  He wasn't. He looked up at her and offered her a thin smile, “I will be.”

 

> Memories have huge staying power, but like dreams, they thrive in the dark, surviving for decades in the deep waters of our minds like shipwrecks on the sea bed.
> 
> ~~J. G. Ballard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this semester at school about did me in, BUT I finished, passed all my courses, got my DEGREE, and now I'm back!


	4. Let Go and Let...Someone

 

> Checking your ego, abandoning it, letting it go, is a huge part of recovery from addiction.
> 
> ~~Susannah Grant

 

Reid made sure he was the last one back on the plane so no one could come sit with him and either play the sympathetic friend or scold him for his choices.  When he boarded, he breathed a quiet sigh of relief that the back corner seats were still vacant, so he curled himself into the chair that would let him see if anyone was approaching and pulled _Crime and Punishment_ out of his bag.  Instead of diving straight in, he pulled his personal cell out too and set it in the open pages of his book.  He pulled up a new message to Ethan, hoping his friend would remember the books they’d shared the summer before they’d parted ways for such opposite grown-up lives.  

_You remember in Crime and Punishment when Raskolnikov goes to the crossroads to confess?_

He let his phone slip forward against his chest and started reading at what he mentally referred to as his audiobook pace, trying to spool the text out as long as he could.  As he read, he slipped the hand not holding his novel back into his bag and pulled out John’s coin. He just held it as he read. The cool metal gradually warmed as it sat in his palm until it became part of his hand; a steady weight warmed by his clean blood.  

_Yeah...I remember…_

_You sound weird._

_Spencer, please tell me you’re alright_

Spencer palmed the coin as he stared down at his phone.  

_I’m okay._

Tired but unwilling to sleep, he gave up any pretence of reading and dropped his book onto his chest to cover his phone and John’s coin and just watched the clouds swell and tumble over each other as the plane cut through them.  His breath hitched as his phone started vibrating against his chest, and he thumbed the screen to life to see a barrage of messages from Ethan.

_That is extremely unconvincing.  Just so you know._

_Please tell me what you meant about the crossroads._

_Spence?_

_Spencer Reid, you tell me what’s going on._

_You know I will chase your ass to goddamn Siberia for answers._

He sighed.  No getting around it apparently.

_I had a bit of a crossroads moment with the UnSub from this case._

_I put my faults on display, and it worked about as well for me as it did for Rodya._

The white noise of the jet blunted Morgan and Hotch arguing quietly about the takedown, so Spencer couldn’t make out much beyond their quietly adamant tones and Morgan’s aggressive gesturing between him and Hotch.  So much for subtlety.

_Like how?_

_I’m seriously worried about you here, Spencer._

Spencer rolled his eyes.  

_It’s...I don’t know...empathy for someone who’s easy to look past isn’t all that desirable in a field agent, I guess._

_It’s fine.  Don’t worry about it._

He slipped his phone back into his bag.  Avoidance wouldn’t fix anything, but he didn’t think he could let Ethan mother hen him while he still felt this raw.  He knew Ethan only wanted to help, but the words to explain how awful this whole case had been just wouldn’t come, and without the words, he couldn’t hope to translate himself to someone who was, no matter how much they cared, an outsider.  

A few hours later, the tightness in his ears pulled Spencer out of his thoughts as the plane started its descent into the airbase.  He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair in an effort to fully wake up, so he could actually drive himself home without crashing into a bar ditch.  John’s coin still rested in his palm, a gentle weight reminding him someone else cared about how he was coping. He ran his thumb across the face before dropping it into his pocket. 

When the plane touched down, Spencer made a show of returning his book to his bag and digging for his keys as he trundled down the stairs and onto the tarmac.

“Reid!” Prentiss called after him as he made a beeline for his car.

He waved over his shoulder at her, hoping she would just let him leave, but the quick tap of her boots across the concrete put paid to that. 

“Hey, Reid, you need a lift?”  she huffed as she caught up to him.  “I...uh...I know it’s late and this way you won’t have to wait on the late trains.”

Spencer swallowed back his kneejerk irritation and put on a politely blank expression.  “No thanks. I have my car.”

“Oh.”  She hesitated, only a little deflated.  “Do you...are you hungry? We could go for dinner.”

Spencer patted her arm and offered her a small, real smile.  “I don’t think I’ll be very good company tonight.” He looked over to the plane to where Rossi and Hotch were coming down the stairs deep in conversation, and his smile faded.  He turned back. “I’m--I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.  Have a good night Spencer.”

 

~~*~~ 

 

Breathing in the blessed silence of his apartment finally let Spencer feel like he wasn’t racing along the razor’s edge of control.  The sun had vanished behind the building opposite, leaving his front room dim and cool, like the whole apartment had settled in for the night.  He stayed in the soft half light of the twilight that filtered through the windows he’d forgotten to close when he’d left for his meeting as he went through his process of ‘coming home.’ 

Work bag by the door, personal books on the living room end table for reshelving, preheat the oven for dinner, gun in the--

Spencer fumbled at the holster on his hip for a moment before he simply pulled it off his belt and put it, empty, into the safe.  He could deal with it tomorrow.  

“Okay, Scarlett O’Hara,” he murmured to himself with a small smirk as he closed and locked the safe on his empty holster.

Back to the kitchen, leftover ziti bake out of the fridge, pan, oven, timer.

The repetitiousness of clearing dirty clothes out of his go bag, folding and packing clean clothes, checking his toiletries and Bureau-issued field gear settled stillness even more firmly into his hands.  

When he dropped his repacked go bag by the door, he grabbed his personal cell out of his messenger bag.  He flipped it in his hand a few times before hitting the power button with a heavy sigh.

“Just let him help,” he muttered as he watched the logo dissolve into his home screen.  

Once his phone finished finding signal, it vibrated in his hand as a pair of texts from Ethan rolled in.  

_Spencer, please call me._

_I know I don’t see the same things you do, but I want to help if I can._

He dialed, unsure whether he actually wanted Ethan to answer or not.

“Thank Christ you called,” Ethan answered without preamble after only one ring.  “I was about to see if I could afford the time off it would take to drive up to your place.”

“Jesus why?” Spencer asked, glaring at his food through the oven window.  “I’m fine. It was just a little…issue.”

“Didn’t sound little.”  

“Well I--”

Ethan sighed.  “Look, Spence, you don’t sound good.  The last time I talked to you, you sounded like you were about to crawl out of your own skin, then the next time I hear from you, you’re referencing Raskolnikov’s breakdown?  You see why I’m worried, right?”

“Yeah, I...yeah.”  He slid down to the floor.  “It’s just...this kid we had to bring in…”  

“A kid?  Jesus. What’re people doing nowadays that the FBI has to come after their kids?”

Spencer laughed bitterly.  “Nothing, in this case. This kid was like one of Harry Harlow’s monkeys; all he wanted was some basic affection and understanding, but that’s really difficult if you’ve only got the wire parent.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It wasn’t pretty.”  Spencer sighed. “And the school wasn’t exactly helpful either…’boys will be boys’ just doesn’t...it’s not...it’s not any sort of excuse.” 

“No, it’s not.  But I’m sure your team was on the same page with you about this?”

Spencer shrugged.  “Yeah, but at the same time not really.”

“How is that possible?” Ethan asked.  

Ethan sounded genuinely concerned under his confusion, and Spencer longed to explain the way past personal experience could influence adult judgment.  But the words wouldn’t come. Instead his throat closed over his frustration, trapping any words that could make Ethan understand.

Spencer shook his head and finally forced out “I just don’t know that I’m cut out for this job, Eth.” 

“I...I think you’re helping people, Spence,” Ethan said after a long pause. 

“But?” Spencer prompted as he pulled his food out of the oven.

“But...I also think this job and your recovery are more than you can handle on your own.” 

“I don’t really have much choice if I want to still have a job,” Spencer snapped.

Ethan sighed.  “Yes you do. You said you met someone at the meeting you went to.”

“I don’t think--”

“Spence, don’t take this the wrong way, but you have the opposite problem right now.  You’re thinking too much. Or, at least, you’re thinking in circles that aren’t helping you.”

Spencer collapsed into a chair at his dinner table.  “So how do I stop?”

Spencer could hear Ethan’s smile in his voice.  “You probably couldn’t stop thinking if you tried.  Just...just let the person you met at NA help you think.  You know I’m here for you, but I think you need to let this guy...girl...Terminator…”

Spencer huffed out a tiny laugh.  “Guy.”

Ethan laughed.  “Well, let him help you too.  You’ve got a lot of people in your corner, Spence.  Let them help you.”

Spencer dragged his thumbnail along the grain of the table.  “I’m not sure how to get a hold of him outside of his work though.”

“Excuses.” Ethan dismissed.  “Rumor is you’re a genius. I’m sure you can think of something.”

He nodded.  “I--I can try.”

“Good.  Have you eaten yet?”

“Waiting on my dinner to cool down from molten right now, actually.”  Spencer stirred his fork through the bowl and a renewed rush of steam billowed out.

“Listen, I’m not playing tonight, so you call me after you eat and get settled if you still feel wound up.”

“But you just said--”

“I know.  And I definitely think Meeting Guy is going to be your best bet for long term support, but I also think you need someone here for you right now.”

Spencer sighed.  “Okay. I...I think I’m going to be okay for tonight.  I’ll eat. I’ll...I don’t know…

“Practice self care?” Ethan asked, a hint of a laugh in his voice.

“Yeah, that.”  Spencer agreed.  “I’ll work on getting in touch with John tomorrow.”

“Good.  It sounds like you have a plan.”

“Yeah.”  Spencer tried to force resolve he wasn’t sure he really felt into his voice.  “And I’m going to stick to it.” 

“Damn straight you will.”

“Ethan?”  Spencer gripped his phone harder, trying to stifle the trembling in his hands.  “I’m...I’m ready for day 308.”

“I know you are.  You’re strong enough for anything, you know that?”

Spencer nodded.  “Yeah.”

“Go.  Eat. Relax.  Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

They exchanged goodbyes, but once he’d hung up, Spencer dropped his phone and frowned down at his dinner, suddenly not hungry.  He only took two bites before the pasta stuck in his throat like glue. Disgusted, he abandoned the concept of eating in favor of curling up in bed.  

“I _am_ taking care of me” he murmured into the dark, but the low hum of the heater was the only reply.

 

~~*~~

 

A night’s sleep wasn’t the total fix Spencer had hoped it would be, but by the time he stepped off the elevator at the BAU the next morning, he felt marginally more under control. Once he made it to his desk, he spun slowly in his chair while his computer booted.

“Do I have to?” he murmured at his desktop as it loaded.

“Hey, Spence,” Prentiss nodded at him a few minutes later as she slid into her desk, juggling a coffee and her bag and her phone.  “Feeling better?”

Spencer clicked send on his email then slashed the first item off his to-do list with steady determination.  “I’m feeling more...settled,” he answered honestly. “I’m…I’m sorry I made you…” he gestured helplessly at her as if the wave of his hand could encompass everything that had happened in Texas.

“Spencer,” Prentiss leaned over the divider between their desks and placed her hand gently on his notepad.  When he finally looked up, she retreated back to her desk, but she smiled softly at him. “You were able to connect with a kid who was really hurting and bring him in without violence.  I’m glad I could help you.”

He blinked up at her, but she just continued to give him an open, undemanding look.  “Pr--Emily, I--”

“Reid.”  Hotch’s steely voice sliced neatly through their conversation, cutting Spencer’s reply off.  “Come see me.”

Spencer nodded grimly as he stood to follow Hotch.  He’d expected this. Didn’t mean he especially _wanted_ to hear all his shortcomings laid out.

“Come in,” Hotch said as he settled himself behind his desk.

Spencer closed the door behind him, but stayed leaning against the wood.  “You--uh--you wanted to see me?”

“Have a seat.”  Hotch gestured to the chair across from him.

“I’m good.”

Hotch stared at him, and for a beat Spencer wondered if he would insist.

“We need to talk about Texas,” Hotch opened instead.

“Okay.”

He sighed.  “Specifically, we need to discuss your behavior in the field.”

Spencer crossed his arms and clenched his fists against his ribs.  When he spoke, he aimed for disinterested so Hotch wouldn’t want to probe deeper.  “Which part of it?”

“Reid,” Hotch snapped, “you know exactly which part.  You knowingly put your life in jeopardy. Not to mention your teammates.  You deliberately fed us bad information which directly led to a dangerous takedown.  It’s not just unprofessional; it’s dangerous.”

Spencer stared at a marksmanship trophy sitting on the shelf over Hotch’s shoulder.  How could he make someone who carried two guns and, in the time Spencer had known him, had never refused to draw down on a suspect understand why he couldn’t bear to see Owen shot in the street like some sort of rabid animal.  ‘Violence isn’t always the answer’ sounded like the trite saying of a naïve child, but his brain stuck on those words like a mantra.

“This is insubordination,” he pressed.  “In front of both the team and the requesting agency?  It’s a fireable offense.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agreed blankly, still staring at the little golden revolver on its marble base.  The idea that he should have spent yesterday evening updating his resume bubbled to the top of his mind. 

“I know you’re the smartest person in pretty much any room, but you have to remember, you aren’t the only person in that room.”

“Feels like it though,” Spencer muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replied with a smile that felt brittle and fake.

Hotch fiddled with the pen on his desk for a moment before he spoke again.  “Reid, whatever’s been going on with you over the past…” He shook his head.  “Just...what were you thinking?”

Spencer shrugged.  Truthfully, he still wasn’t sure.  He only knew he didn’t want to exist anymore under the black cloud that had attached to him in California.  “I...this would have been the second time a kid died in front of me, and it just...it’s my turn to save one.”

Hotch’s gaze bored into Spencer.  “That sounds like keeping score.” He shook his head.  “You can’t do that in this job. You’ll drive yourself off a cliff thinking that way, especially because, much as we may want it to, the world doesn’t work like that.”

“It should.”

Hotch smiled at that, but he looked a little sad.  “While I understand what you did, I can’t condone it.”

Spencer nodded.  His feet felt tingly and oddly disconnected as he waited for Hotch to lower the boom.

“If this happens again, I’ll have no choice but to fire you.  For now, consider yourself confined to the precinct when we travel.  We’ll reevaluate in a few weeks.” He held Spencer’s gaze, waiting for his reply.

“Is that all?” Spencer asked, relieved and ready to escape to the relative solitude of his desk.

“For now.”

Spencer pulled open the door, and he was halfway out when Hotch spoke again, making him turn back.

“Reid, I--please tell me if you need anything.  I _am_ here for you.”

He nodded then slipped out the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Back at his desk, he finally took a deep breath.  That certainly could have gone worse. Could have gone better.  At least he still had a job. That was something. Instead of obsessing on his conversation with Hotch because that would get him nowhere new, he pulled his to-do list back over and started skimming down it, considering how to best get through his day without being reduced to either swearing, tears, or boredom.  

“Hey, you okay?”  Emily asked.

He smirked.  “I’m still employed.”

“That’s good.”  Emily smiled encouragingly at him.  “Speaking of employed, I still have your sidearm.”

Spencer grimaced.  “Please don’t remind me.  I don’t--I don’t think I can use that gun anymore.”

“You’re required to be armed, though,” she pointed out.  

“I know, but--”  the ping of his email cut him off.  He hadn’t expected a reply this quickly; John was an extremely busy man after all.  The message only contained one line:

_Come see me at noon._

Spencer read it, let it slip into his memory, then he deleted the email.  No one else needed to see his business. One of the first things he’d learned at the BAU was that there was no bigger group of gossips than profilers with no active case.  

“Hey, Emily, I’ve got kind of a lot to push through by the end of the day, so can we come back to the gun thing later?”

Emily nodded, a bit of uncertainty lurking, but clearly willing to trust him for now.  “Sure.”

 

~~*~~

 

He worked steadily, and blessedly free of interruptions, until the soft pinging of his email’s alarm reminded him it was nearly noon.  As he made his way to John’s office, he dug his hands into his pocket, and let his right hand close over John’s coin. Running his thumb over the words embossed on it for the umpteenth time as he walked, he had to admit John had been right.  It was a good reminder.

“Can I help you, Agent…?”  John’s secretary’s voice cut through his swirling thoughts and stopped Spencer in his tracks.

“Uh--Doctor Reid,” he answered.  “I’m--um--I have a--”

“Spencer!” John poked his head out of his office, sparing Spencer from having to explain himself.  “It’s alright, Arlene, this is my twelve o’clock.” He shot her a bright smile.

She nodded, now clearly unconcerned with Spencer’s arrival since he was expected.  “Okay. Oh, I’m going to call for lunch in a bit, you want anything?”

“No, thanks.  I’ll probably walk somewhere.  Could do with the exercise.” He and Arlene shared a conspiratorial laugh, before he turned his attention back to Spencer. “Come on in.”  

John ushered Spencer into his office then shut the door behind them, closing them into the cool quiet of his office.  “So, what brings you up to the tenth floor?”

Suddenly the thought of opening his mouth on everything that lay behind his visit seemed like it would crush him, so he said the only thing he could think of that wouldn’t turn into an avalanche that would bury them both.  “I understand now. Why you’re letting me hold your coin.”

“Good.”  He smiled and clapped Spencer on the shoulder.  “The details might be a bit much for the office, though.  Have you had lunch yet?”  

Spencer shook his head.

John grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair.  “Let’s take a walk.”

When they came out, Arlene was on the phone arguing politely with someone who seemed determined that the FBI was hiding evidence of ‘meth gators’, whatever those were, so with a smile and a wave of his Blackberry in her direction from John, they were free.  

“How long can I keep you?” John asked as they walked across campus towards the dining facilities.

Spencer shrugged.  “I’m not the go-to guy for anything but an ass chewing right now, so I doubt anyone’s going to come looking for me.”

John smiled down at his shoes as they walked.  “I’ve been there. More than once.” He looked over and caught Spencer’s eye.  “This too shall pass.”

“Feels like forever when you’re in it though,” he murmured.

John nodded.  “It definitely does.”

They lapsed into silence the rest of their walk over to the dining facilities, but Spencer kept darting furtive glances at John as they walked.  John practically strolled, like he didn’t have a care in the world apart from enjoying the balmy midday weather. Smiling and nodding at people he recognized as they walked.   

By contrast, Spencer curled in on himself in the hopes that John wouldn’t press him for more details while they walked.  A small part of him regretted asking for this appointment; he knew ‘I’m fine’ wouldn’t work with someone like John. He knew that he needed to talk to someone who could help him with both the recovery and the job.

Once they made it to the MCX, got food, and found seats in a quiet corner, John just sat and watched Spencer pick at his food with a placid smile on his face.  

“You can ask you know,” he said after a beat of silence.

Spencer looked up from where he’d been contemplating his plate instead of actually eating.  “That’s not--you’d--” he took a breath. “How did you know who I was?”

John chuckled.  “You were headhunted, Spencer.  There are a lot of people in the Bureau who know who you are.”  He caught Spencer’s eye before he continued. “But you know that’s not what matters here, though, right?  Here you’re just Spencer. And that’s enough.”

Spencer ducked his head and nodded, unsure what ‘just Spencer’ would even look like.  Instead of worrying about continuing the conversation, he tried a few bites of the taco salad he’d picked.

“Can I ask you something?  Not about me.”

John nodded.  “I’ll answer anything you ask as honestly as I can.”

“How...how did you...I mean, you’re so…” Spencer shut his eyes against his rising blush and huffed out a breath.  “Just... _how_?”

“To start or to stop?” John asked, smiling faintly.

“Both, really.  I mean, I can tell you mine if that helps?” Spencer offered.

John shook his head.  “You only need to tell me if you’re really ready.”  He set down his fork and pointed at his left shoulder.  “Have you ever been shot?”

Spencer shook his head.

“I hadn’t either when this happened.  How much do you know about the operations that took place under the Pizza Connection heading during the 80s?”

Spencer shrugged.  “Wasn’t it something to do with taking down the mafia and their heroin dealing?”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah.  We were paired with locals who’d been working undercover, and when it came time for arrests, I know it’ll shock you to hear that the targets didn’t want to come quietly.”  John rolled his shoulder unconsciously. “Taking a .223 to the shoulder isn’t pretty.”

“A .223 impacts its target with 1,300 foot-pounds of energy.  That’s more than enough to shatter human bone and shred flesh and muscle,” Spencer recited, barely pausing to think.  “The cavitation can be--” he stopped himself. John surely already knew all this. He’d experienced it firsthand, afterall.  “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”  John smiled. “You’re used to engaging with the world from an analytical angle.  That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yeah, but time and place,” Spencer argued, parroting the words every single one of his teammates had flung at him in varying degrees of annoyance over the past three years.  “The statistics aren’t important though, I interrupted you.”

He waved his hand, dismissing Spencer’s words.  “We’re sharing a conversation, you’re just fine.”

“So how…” Spencer knew what he wanted to ask, but he also knew how much he hated people picking up the rocks of his life and having a peek at the spiders crawling on the undersides.  He didn’t want to poke needlessly into John’s private life.  

“Six surgeries, two skin grafts, and nearly a year and a half on desk duty,” John answered the unasked question.  “It was medically necessary. At first. I couldn’t imagine how much pain came along with a gunshot wound until I had one.”

“What--uh--what changed?” Spencer asked.  He hoped seeing someone else’s slip off the edge might help him articulate his own.

“Honestly?  Desk duty.” John shook his head at the memory of his younger self.  “I wasn’t really in pain, but I was bored, so I just tried to erase my days.  It wasn’t hard to convince my doctors I was still in pain. I sorted myself out l to get cleared for field duty, but, well, relapses aren’t always a dramatic bender.”

Spencer shook his head.  “They aren’t. And cheating on sobriety isn’t like cheating on a diet.”

“Indeed it isn’t,” John agreed with a laugh.  

Spencer set his fork down and clasped his hands together in his lap to stop them from moving.  He knew what he looked like when he flailed them around, and he wanted to make sure his words were the focus instead of his unruly hands.  

“I’m…” he sighed and tried again.  “I was held by an UnSub with dissociative identity disorder for two days.  One of his identities, Tobias, dosed me with his Dilaudid. When the team finally found me, I...I stole the rest of his stash off his dead body.  It...it wasn’t my choice until it was, you know? I mean, he dosed me, but it could have stopped there. I could have left the rest there. I didn’t need to get scripts from the ER doctor who treated me or my doctor here.”  

Spencer shook his head in self-recrimination.  “For God’s sake, I know the statistics on drug abuse and schizophrenic breaks.”

“There’s a giant ‘but’ I’d like to point out here,” John said gently.

“How could there possibly be?”

John just looked at him expectantly, waiting on Spencer to put together whatever he’d identified as the bright spot in this whole sordid mess.  

“I don’t--”

“You’re clean,” John interrupted gently.

Spencer sagged back against his seat.  “Yeah, but sometimes it feels like I’m hanging on by my fingernails.”

“Any thoughts about why that is?”

“Sure,” Spencer replied, shocked by the bitterness in his voice, but unable to stop himself now that John had pointed him at the source.  “I’m _grinding_ this out every single day completely in secret.  I’ve never even dared to go to a meeting until earlier this week.  The _only_ person who knows _anything_ about this lives a thousand miles away, and while he’s trying to be empathetic, he’s got no real idea what this job is like.”  He stopped, suddenly tired. He wondered idly how suspicious it would look if he just took the afternoon off.

John reached across the table towards Spencer, but he just left his hand in Spencer’s line of sight.  No demand. Only a request. “How much do you know about the program model?”

Spencer slid John’s coin out of his pocket and held it under the table, the bumps of the letters and the ridge of the edge digging into his fingers.  “I’m familiar with the process.”

“So you know about sponsorship, then?”

Spencer nodded.  “In theory.”

John’s smile was bright and genuine when he asked, “can I interest you in practice?”

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” Spencer said, shaking his head.

“You know how I told you it took me six years for that first year?”  John asked.

Spencer nodded.

“It took me that long because I was doing it on my own.”

“I’ve been getting by though.”

“I’m not saying you haven’t, or that you can’t do this on your own.  But I want you to think about how it would feel to have support from someone who not only knows the process, but knows the job too.”

Spencer frowned.  “Can...can I think about it?”

John nodded.  “Of course. This isn’t a decision to rush into.  Let me give you my personal cell, then you can reach me whenever _you_ want.”

Spencer dug his personal cell out of his bag and passed it over with numb fingers.  Even though he’d finally told John what he hadn’t told anyone else, not even Ethan, still made him feel exposed.  The thought of repeatedly stripping himself like this made him vaguely nauseous. “What if I don’t ever call?”

John glanced up from Spencer’s phone and smiled.  “Then you don’t ever call.”  

He pressed Spencer’s phone back into his hand just like he had handed over his coin.  Gently. Warmly. “This is an offer. Not an obligation.”

He nodded, slipping his phone and the coin back into his pocket.  “It’s just...revealing.”  

“It can be,” John agreed softly.

A ping from his work phone made Spencer jump.  They’d been sitting and talking for over an hour.  “Do you mind if we head back?” 

John nodded.  “Of course. Time and profiles wait for no man.”

The walk back was mostly silent again, but Spencer felt more settled than he had in weeks.  The anxiety of facing another Texas, or even California, didn’t feel nearly so paralyzing. Even the tedium of in-office work seemed more manageable.  

When the elevator dinged on the sixth floor, Spencer sighed and steeled himself to face an afternoon of consults and Hotch’s silent disappointment.  

John clapped him on the shoulder, making Spencer turn back.  “Remember, there’s no limit on my offer.”

Spencer smiled and nodded.  “Thanks. I really think this’ll be good for me.”

After a small wave to John, he turned to head back into the BAU, but stopped short at the sight of David Rossi standing by the glass doors and watching them with undisguised interest.  He sighed. So much for discretion.

“Rossi,” he greeted evenly, pulling open the door to the unit.

“What’re you doing with Johnny Evans?” Rossi asked as he trailed after Spencer.

Spencer shrugged.  “Talking. Eating taco salads.”

“Really?”  Rossi drew the word out like he didn’t believe Spencer.

He nodded.  “Really.”  

Spencer dropped his bag by his desk and pulled his to-do list over to see where he’d left off.  He glanced back up at Rossi. “Did you need anything else?”

“Oh, nope,” Rossi answered, with an innocence that didn’t fool Spencer for a second.  He turned and headed back for his office.  

Spencer sagged back in his chair and scowled.  This wouldn’t stay secret for long.

 

 

> A man’s pride can be his downfall, and he needs to learn when to turn to others for support and guidance.
> 
> ~~Bear Grylls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Deejaymil for the kindest ass kicking a gal could ask for...Dee, you keep me writing even when I'm depressed...love you.
> 
> Thank you to every single one of you leaving kudos and comments. I see you and I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> While I've got this planned, I also work full time and go to school full time, so updates won't happen on a set schedule, but they are coming. Please bear with me.


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